The Gay Love Child of Dick Whitman
by justincbenedict
Summary: Why did Dick Whitman REALLY leave for Korea?
1. Chapter 1

DICK WHITMAN'S LOVE CHILD: A bit of "Mad Men" Fan Fiction

Chapter One

Willa looked at the sniveling Englishman. He had dressed now and was carefully putting on his horn-rimmed glasses.

Willa really hadn't caned him that hard, but of course she'd laid it on a bit more than they probably did in those fancy British schools. A colleague of Willa's claimed that she'd used the whip on a button man who worked for Meyer Lansky, and wouldn't Willa love a client like that! But of course now was the time to ask the question, while Lane was still a bit vulnerable.

"Lane, I have a question, and I want you to answer me honestly." She tried to smile, but the man looked like a festering cockroach, or possibly Jiminy Cricket's lunatic uncle.

"Y-yes, Miss Primrose?" Lane Pryce smiled weakly.

"On Tuesday, I was in a limousine going by the Russian Tea Room, and I saw you standing with a man, about six feet tall, with a sort of widow's peak." Actually, Willa had been on the streetcar, but why not keep up the fantasy.

"Y-yes, Miss Primrose?" Lane asked, looking as if he was sweating a bit.

"The man was wearing a grey pin striped suit…what was his name?" Oh Jesus. I hope I don't have to hit him again to get this…Willa tried to look severe.

Lane salivated. "Is-is he a client of yours, Miss Primrose?" Oh those buggy eyes. Sometimes Willa envied her neighbor Clarice, who worked in a dime store.

Willa thought of Billy, and got angry. She had to get Lane to spill, and fast.

"Lane, tell me the fellow's name immediately. I wouldn't like to drop by your office to find out."

Most of Willa's "boys" did not let Willa know where they worked, but Lane Pryce was a case for Bellevue, when he got in the mood, and twice Willa and her rattan had been summoned to swipe Lane's pale pimpled narrow behind in his spacious office at Sterling Cooper Draper Price.

"Why-why do you want to know?" Lane Pryce asked.

Willa sighed, and picked up her cane. It might be a long afternoon.

Chapter Two

Dick Whitman tapped "The Magnificent Ambersons" on his arm as he waited impatiently in the deserted carriage house. He smiled, sitting on the old brass bed. Who the hell had put a bed in here in the first place?

It was amazing that the bed held up…After the Sorensens had lost their farm in '33, no one seemed to want to buy it-Uncle Mac said that you couldn't really grow anything on that land…Old Sorensen had never really understood crop rotation, and he'd starved the soil

But scores of kids—Dick and his friends included—had played in the carriage house—bouncing on the old brass bed, pretending it was a pirate ship, or a buckboard from the "Lone Ranger" program on WQXR…and then of course, as Dick had grown older, he'd brought girls here…

Well, just Willa and one other, Lenore Hoskins, the town pump, who'd informed Dick that when she'd been rolling around on this ugly old carriage house brass bed with Reverend Conway, one of the loose springs had put gangrene in his back…the carriage house roof had holes, and those springs were RUSTY.

Dick snorted, wondering how old "Self abuse will condemn you boys to eternal damnation" Conway had explained that one to his frog-faced wife. The rusty spring had been snapped off by Uriah, the blacksmith, when Lenore had brought him here, though Lenore had told Dick breezily that Uriah preferred giving it to her in the outhouse.

What was Dick going to say to Willa? She'd probably heard that he'd been sitting on Sarah's porch again. They'd had a row about that before. No, Sarah wasn't as curvy as Willa, and her mousy strands couldn't match up to Willa's thick, curly strawberry blonde locks.

"She's white trash" Uncle Mac had said on more than one occasion. "Sure, they're church goin' people, but the Primroses are worthless." Then Uncle Mac had snorted. " 'Tain't surprisin' you take to her, Dick Whitman, you whore's child"

Sarah was funny, though not all that smart—she'd gasped when Orem Knutes had told her Truman's full middle name was Syphilis—how could she be so dumb? Her father owned the sawmill AND the Mercantile!

But Sarah liked Dick, and old Thorsen grudgingly admitted that if his precious homely princess liked the next-in-line to be foreman, why shouldn't they wed? But Dick had put off telling Willa, since almost every time they met at the carriage house, or in her Pa's barn, he became distracted by undoing her blouse…Dick was weak.

But he must be strong. Last night, Dick and Sarah had asked old Thorsen's blessing, and they'd got it, and this time June first, Dick would be living in old Thorsen's house…and moving quick up from just being a foreman. But Dick had this one nasty little chore with Willa!

The door to the carriage house slammed. There she was. Dick felt a lump in his chest. He bit his lip. Oh Jesus. Those tumbling curls! Willa bounded over and hopped on Dick's lap, and plunged her tongue down his throat, and they were distracted for an hour… and then there was a nap.

"So, Dick…what did you think of the book?" Dick's eyes opened and he looked at Willa, trying to smile. What book? Oh, the Magnificent Ambersons. Of course. Willa was buttoning up, covering the rose tipped nipples with dull muslin.

"I guess it was okay. Certainly not as swell as "Penrod" though." Dick lit a home rolled Bugler, lit it and handed it to Willa, who puffed enthusiastically. She'd have to wash her mouth out before she got home. Her Pa was a Pentecostal.

Why were they on books? Dick's mind returned to his thoughts of the morning, being a Thorsen' s Mercantile owner, and denying his Uncle Mac credit at least once before Mac died.

"It was a different book, Dick. 'Penrod' is a kid's book. But 'The Magnificent Ambersons' is about wealthy folk, and how temporary being rich can be." Willa paused, drawing in the smoke, before handing the Bugler butt back to Dick. "It's the best book I've read yet, except for 'An American Tragedy', bet you've not read that, have you?"

Dick felt a bit nauseous. Was it the cigarette, or the way Willa…"Hey, you're looking at me funny. No, I haven't read it. I like dime novels, generally." He paused, and handed the cigarette back to Willa, motioning that she could keep it.

Dick looked importantly at Willa, and began the speech the way he and Orem Knutes had rehearsed it…Orem was a wordy bastard. "I need to talk to you, Willa, about my future, and uh, yours."

Willa patted her stomach, smiled and said "Dick, ya took the words right outta my mouth."

Two days later, Dick Whitman, arrested with several other hoboes on an empty freight car in Topeka, accepted the Justice of the Peace's suggestion that he join the Army, out of a possible two choices. After all, Dick Whitman was somebody. Who wants to do forty days on a government pea farm?

Chapter Three

Billy Primrose leaned over the towel counter of the Everard Spa Turkish Bathhouse and smiled at the nice Italian gent. "I sure liked that book, it really was about us, wasn' t it?" Billy shook his head. "I gave it to my Mom and she read it too. Funny name, though, 'The City and the Pillar'. First time I ever read a book about, stuff, other than Gordon Merrick novels, you know"

The Italian fellow, who insisted that Billy call him Sal, smirked. " Gordon Merrick! The pansie's romance novelist. You know, Billy, "The City and the Pillar" is still selling terribly, terribly well here in New York, and I believe the author comes here to the Everard, for a Turkish bath now and then." Sal paused. "You-you showed the book to your—mother?"

Billy grinned and reached a lanky hand over, tapping Sal's arm. "Sal, my Mom is swell. She knew when I was playin' tea party with the Iglehart sisters in apartment 4-D that I was different…though she always encouraged me to play stickball too!"

Sal laughed, a rich, Mediterranean chuckle. "My mother would say a novena for me and then die, perhaps not in that order, if she knew I read such things." He paused, pushing a rich dark lock off his forehead. "But Vidal's book still sells very well, and it came out the year you were born-1948."

Billy grinned and lit a cigarette. "I was born in 1950, Sal, don't make me older n' I am. But don't tell anyone I'm fifteen—might make me too popular."

A fat queen, shimmying down the hall, grinned at Billy. "Reach for a Luckie instead of a sweet, that was the ad when I was a kid." He snatched a towel, giving Billy the eye, before trotting off, his oversize buttocks jiggling.

Sal looked disapproving. "You a big Lucky Strike fan, Billy?"

Billy smiled. "Well, I usually roll my own, but a fella who comes here when he's in town gave me six cartons after we had an um, interlude, I guess you'd say."

Sal pouted. "The fellow's name was Lee?"

Billy rolled his eyes back. "I think he's from North Carolina, but he called himself Tex, but lotta guys from out of town do. He said he got the cartons for free, and he'd bring me more." Billy paused. "He had the initials L.G. and the Roman number for two—two I's? Etched on his money clip—real silver. I remember 'cause he gave me a real good tip, too—five dollars."

Sal rolled his eyes. "I bet he did. Stay away from him, Billy. He's trouble. Cost me a good job once."

Billy looked shocked. "A job? Tex? He's a little unusual, Sal. Sounds all tough an' Southern, but he wears ladies undergarments. And he gave Speedy McCoy a sawbuck once to put a feather up his own behind."

Sal smiled. "What a rare and choice bit of trivia, Billy. Thank you."

Suddenly Billy heard a shriek from down the hall. "Oh golly, Sal, I got to bring Truman his Black Beauties. If he don't take one every hour, he gets weird."

Sal opened his mouth in wonder. "Your duties as a towel attendant are quite varied, Billy. Harry Truman is here at the Everard?"

Billy smiled as he vaulted over the towel room counter. "N-not exactly."

Chapter Four

Roger Sterling leaned back in the booth at the Algonquin and gazed into Joan's eyes. Draining his Martini, he tried to look fetching, though he was no competition for his lunch companion.

"Joanie, Joanie." Looking meaningful just doesn't work. Roger used to tell jealous Fourth Formers back at St. Paul's that he could get laid with any looks and no money, because he had confidence.

"What bullshit, Sterling" Preece, a pock-marked fifteen year old had said bitterly. "We all use the same lines on the babes at the mixers, but you're necking with Janet Dowling in the Miss Porter's cloakroom because you look like Montgomery Clift, you're a tight end on the football team, and you're fuckin' loaded."

Tacker, Preece's pudgy roommate had added, "One day you're going to say the same old stuff to a girl, and she's going to look up and see Daddy, and it'll be over, unless you get even richer."

The losers were right! What the hell was going on? Joanie used to hop into Roger's bed at the Waldorf, cuddling his head against those marvelous bazooms, COMFORTING him when he'd talked about his ex-wife Mona being bitchy, his daughter Margaret not talking to him…or old World War II memories, not really traumatic as Roger had never been wounded…but Joanie's eyes would always well up…

And everyone else's, damn it! Hat check girls, off-Broadway actresses, four-count 'em…four of his copy-writer's wives over the years. And dozens of secretaries, from old Blankenship, . on. Shit, once Roger had pinched Audrey Hepburn's behind in front of Grauman's Chinese theater in Los Angeles, and she'd smiled at him.

Roger leaned over "Please Joanie. You're a fire-headed milkmaid. Those lips…Joanie, you just got your divorce. Your boy needs a-a man around. Things aren't working out with Jane. I think I want to marry you." There. He'd laid down his aces.

Did he really want to MARRY Joan? Probably not, even Joan might get boring over and over again…Roger had never thought darling little Jane Siegel would turn into such a baggy bitch when he'd married HER, but they all wilt. But Joanie was the finest piece of ass…and—"

Joan Holloway Harris laughed, and shook her head. "Oh, Roger. You're such a spoiled child. You can't trade in women like they're showroom Buicks, you know. One new one every eighteen months."

Roger leaned back in his chair, absently signaling the waiter for another Martini. Why the hell NOT?

Joanie chuckled, her bosom bouncing merrily in her snug green basque. "Roger, you should have stayed with Mona. Really, you should have. That's one thing your skirt-chasing father did…he had lots in common with your mother, except for that one little thing he got everywhere else."

Roger looked dispiritedly at the waiter, who was now coming much too slowly with his Martini. Roger lit a cigarette. He wanted a wife, or at least a lay, and instead here was Ann Landers.

Roger tried another tack. "You-you see, I realize now, I love red heads. I've been um, marrying brunettes, and I think they signify failure. Mona and Margaret, my darling ex- wife and daughter, they always brought me down. Margaret especially. Brunette, and making me feel like an old fuddy-duddy, when I'm a lot of fun."

Roger raised his eyebrows imperiously at Joan. Now for the sell. "And Jane—she's no better, she doesn't really love me, the real me—the generous, loving, unselfish me that no one ever sees—it's because she's a brunette, and I love REDHEADS! I read Little Orphan Annie in the 'Daily News' funnies every day."

Joan smiled. "Did you see the redhead who came in the lobby yesterday, looking for Don? She was really something. Bustier than I am, even."

Roger gritted his teeth. Goddamned Draper. He got all the women. And what a cold fish. Roger had felt very emasculated when he'd flirted heavily with Betty one night, and she'd backed away, even though Roger was her husband's BOSS!

Roger rolled his eyes. "Big deal. Don Draper is married now, not in a loveless marriage like the one I'm in, of course—"

Joan smiled. "Or the one you were in before?" She had such luscious lips, that girl. How had Roger let her get away?

"But Don's out this week—he's in D.C. meeting with the Department of Ag over D.D.T. you know, that dyke's book, Silent Shriek, or something. The redhead, whoever she is, will have to come back."

Roger thought about D.D.T. Can't spray the lawn, can't smoke a cigarette, and Jane thinks Roger drank too much, though Jane, being a Jewess almost didn't drink at all.

Jesus, nothing's fun anymore. Mark Twain said once "If I want to be healthy I have to eat what I don't want, drink what I don't like, and eat what I'd rather not." Sonuvabitch was right.

Joan sipped her Sambuca, and then opened her compact to adjust that marvelous lipstick. "But the funniest thing was, Lane Pryce seemed to know this redhead. If you can believe it, he looked at her in the lobby and began to cry."

Chapter Five

Peggy Olsen entered the 53rd Street Horn and Hardart, picking up a tuna on rye, and sitting down at one of the ugly little tables. Peggy had been unsurprised when the little lunch carts that had been so popular at Sterling Cooper did not follow the fleeing partners to Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce—after all, the firm had a tenth of the staff there.

Peggy bit into the sandwich. Actually, the mayonnaise was better here at the Automat. But Peggy had really liked Moses, the colored fellow who sold the sandwiches at the old office. Hmm…Peggy needed to focus on good things you could say about aluminum siding.

But it was her lunch break. And Heaven knew, between trying to supervise the creative team, who had the maturity of junior high boys, dodging calls from Ma, who was now trying to set Peggy up with the oldest O'Hara boy who apparently had moved to Park Slope and started a gravel business (stupid, since gravel, as far as Peggy knew was run by the mob) and dealing with Duck, who still didn't have a job…Peggy was busy. Real busy.

So maybe she should read her new novel, Jaqueline Susann's latest, and just relax. But why was it all so HARD? All Peggy wanted to do was do her job well, and supervise people efficiently, and things seemed to have gone from her being criticized as "too" nice, when she'd first started as a secretary at Sterling Cooper, to now (and Peggy had overheard this, passing by the switchboard) being referred to as "bitchy."

Bitchy. Me. Peggy Olsen. Headed for the convent until second semester 10th grade. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the second time I was with Pete Campbell was just because I felt sorry for him. And I gave the baby away…went through all that.

And all I do, Peggy thought as she wiped lettuce from her chin, is take charge, just like Don Draper taught me to! I don't act any different from anyone else who is a creative director, do I? And everyone treats me like I'm a wicked witch or something!

Peggy's friend Joyce Ramsay, who was a photo editor at "Life" magazine downstairs, had told Peggy once that a writer named Simone De Beauvior had written "When women act like human beings, they're accused of trying to be men"

And Joyce…wow, there's Joyce over there! Sitting with a group of people with the ugly little tables pushed together. Peggy was so glad Joyce had good friends. These people looked much more respectable than the people Peggy had met at Joyce's Beatnik parties.

Joyce saw Peggy and waved her over, and Peggy smiled and walked over slowly. She really didn't have a lot of time for lunch but….Oh my, there was Sal Romano! Peggy didn't know Joyce knew Sal. And look, was that Father Gill?

Joyce stood up and embraced Peggy. "Peggy, how's it going? These are my friends."

Peggy saw a fat woman slip a magazine entitled "The Mattachine Review" off the table and drop it in her purse. She smiled. "I know two of them! Sal, how are you? And Father Gill!"

Joyce pulled out a chair and Peggy sat down. Why was Sal blushing?

"Yes, Peggy and this is Tom and Louise" Joyce said, tapping a thin musician type of guy and the fat woman. "How have you been?"

"I'm doing well." Peggy said with a smile. "Father, Ma keeps telling me to come to Mass and hear your so-called progressive sermons."

Father Gill grinned. "Peggy, you can call me Johnny here. I'd actually really prefer it." For some reason the entire table exploded into subdued chuckles.

Peggy had never called a priest by his first name, and wasn't really sure she could now. Ma would get out the leather strop, really. "Sal, how have YOU been? Are you doing art anywhere I know? We really miss your work at Sterling Cooper." Peggy paused. "Though you know, we're Sterling Cooper Draper and Price, now."

Sal was so damn good looking. Those teeth! "I'm afraid, Peggy, that I've not been able to break back into advertising. Your friend Lee Garner, Jr, your client, really—he blackballed me all over town. I'm waiting tables at a Lindy's on Amsterdam Avenue."

"God, that's terrible." Peggy breathed. "You're so talented! Maybe we could—I could talk to Don Draper, maybe. Do you have a business card?" No, stupid Peggy…Waiters don't have—"I mean, a phone number, or does your wife work somewhere that has a phone."

Sal looked away. Then he smiled, biting his lip. "My wife—she is living with her mother in Flushing, and I don't have a telephone of my own." Sal looked at Father Gill—Johnny—no, no, Father Gill—appealingly, and Father Gill looked at Peggy.

"Actually, Peggy, I'm letting Sal stay at the chancery. He's an avid Catholic and a brilliant gardener, and our zinnias have never looked better. You can call the church office—your mother has the number—and I'm sure I can put you through to Sal."

Peggy smiled. It was so nice the way things worked out sometimes.

Chapter Six

Peter Campbell, Deerfield '51,Dartmouth'56 ( Pete had done a gap year in Marseilles, so he'd finished in five) walked jauntily down the hall, nodding to secretaries and office boys. "Afternoon, um, Joe?"

Peter Campbell was a small "d" democrat, really he was. Just last night he'd told Trudy "Everyone matters, from the lowest janitor, I think"And how Trudy had beamed at him!

Yes, everyone gets a smile, I have to be, as Trudy says, a beam of positivity. And today was a good day! Don Draper was consulting HIM, Pete Campbell. A partner!

Pete slowed as he saw Burt Cooper amble into Draper's office. Let me be just a little late. Can't have these fellows thinking I'm anxious for their good opinion. Pete despised the way other men—Harry Crane, Ken Cosgrove, even Pete's brother Bud—seemed so, what was that Reader's Digest word? Sycophantic. Yes.

Of course in the early days at Sterling Cooper, Pete had scurried, and even doing that, had always felt that Draper and the other partners treated him badly, looked down on him. Burt Cooper had actually said in Pete's hearing that he was surprised Pete was an actual Dyckman relation. As if that was all he was!

Pete's Nana had indeed been a Dyckman, and certainly there was some family pride there. But Peter Campbell had pulled himself up by the bootstraps. Father had ensured Pete earn every penny of his spending cash until he was THIRTEEN YEARS OLD.

And Cleveland, who Pete had bussed tables with at the Harvard club, (dead ringer, DEAD, for Rochesteron the "Jack Benny" program) was still one of Pete's best friends. Pete had left a dime for Roscoe under his plate just Sunday. They always winked back and forth, too. Negroes seem to love winking.

Pete finally approached Don's door, looking carefully at the"DON DRAPER" on the mahogany. Were the letters bigger than on Pete's door? Pete smiled confidently.

Roger Sterling, who Lane Pryce referred to as a "child" was Draper's drinking buddy, so there was probably a bit of favoritism there. But Pete could deal with it. Let the letters be billboard high. We self-made men don't care. Those Horatio Alger books of Father's had been so inspiring!

"Mark the Match Boy" Campbellknocked, and strode manfully into Don Draper's office. There they all were. Lane Pryce, looking like an old woman. Roger Sterling, puffing away. Pete had been greviously disappointed that Sterlingand the others hadn't stopped smoking Luckies when Lee Garner Jr. snatched the account.

Dr. Buchman had told Mother that smoking stunted the growth, and it irritated Pete that, despite being the only non-smoker among the partners, he was the shortest. But no matter. Pete sat down in the empty chair and grinned broadly. Why not, when you're among friends?

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

"A homosexual. We discovered we had a degenerate in our midst, we fired him, and now Miss Olson wants him back."

Burt Cooper shook his head, wondering if he'd heard right. Cooper hated meetings. He longed to be in his old office at Sterling Cooper, the ORIGINAL firm, where Burt had had lovely Japanese prints on the walls, and could tend his plants in peace.

Here in this goddamned cubbyhole, Cooper had to sit in the reception, reading the underlined parts of "Atlas Shrugged" and awaiting stupid summonses from these idiot whelps.

Don Draper, sitting behind his desk spoke slowly and decisively, as was his wont. "Burt, Peggy may be right. We've fired two art directors in the last year, and Romano's work was very, very good. We don't have to broadcast the fact that we're hiring him back, do we?"

Burt's shaggy white eyebrows met. That was a long sentence for Draper. Burt found many things lacking with Roger Senior's boy, but one thing you could say for 'Peanut' was, you always knew what was on young Roger's mind…he spilled like a punctured cistern.

And now, of course Roger Jr. popped off, punctuating his comments with that car-salesman grin. "Burt, BURT! Don's not going to give Sal Romano the title of Art Director again, at least until he proves himself—"

"Sal proved himself, again and again." Don said quietly, and Peggy Olson nodded earnestly.

Burt gazed down at his Argyle socks. Impudent whelps, all of them. Oh my. Campbell, who resembled nothing more forcefully than a Q tip in Burberry suit, was now speaking.

"Don, my father always said people like that hanged themselves. Perhaps the reason Romano didn't knock himself off after we fired him was because he's seriously disturbed." Pete Campbell shook his head vigorously.

Burt felt an urge to pick his nose, and put his hands in his pockets. "I don't know how much we need that er, artsy of an art director, Don. I'm sure Miss Olson has the young girl's compassion for a sick man, but sympathy for a-er pederast is quite misplaced."

Peggy spoke "I don't think rejecting Lee Garner Junior's advances shows pederasty. Garner was forty if he was a day. I think it showed good sense."

Everyone laughed, somewhat surprised at Peggy's wit.

Peggy, emboldened continued. "Sal has rooms with my mother's priest, and Father Gill says he's a daily communicant—"

"Is that what they call it now?" Roger murmured, and there was another chuckle.

"I have no objection" Lane Pryce said primly, as he looked at a clipboard.

Roger whispered something that sounded suspiciously like "you wouldn't" into Pete Campbell's ear, and Campbellsniggered obediently.

Burt shrugged. W.H. Auden, one of Burt's favorite non-Oriental poets, was said to be a bit light in the loafers, and Burt was shrewdly aware that Draper and Miss Olson were probably the brightest lights in the damned firm.

After all, Don Draper was the reason Burt had left a comfortable sinecure where he made five times what he made now…wasn't it? Cooper thought wistfully of his old office. His beloved Azaleas…how Burt missed trimming them!

Reluctantly, Burt nodded, thinking of Roger Sterling pere, and how he'd actually laughed, hearing that a college chum had jumped out of a building in the fall of '29. Now there was, if a bit of an ass—a man who knew how to run an advertising firm. Draper, not Sterling minor who was the heir apparent.

"All right, Don" Burt said heavily. "Whatever you think is best. Romano bringing a staff with him?"

Cooper waited patiently while the merriment over the term "staff"subsided and looked at Don again, who looked questioningly at Peggy Olsen.

"No, Sal has just one assistant." Peggy responded, looking at her pad. "A William Primrose."

Chapter Eight

"Really, Johnny, you didn't have to do this" Salvatore Romano said as Father Gill negotiated the Rambler around the corner of Madison and East Fifty-fifth, carefully ignoring a vulgar hand gesture from a probable Protestant in a DeSoto Firedome that he'd just cut off.

"My mother almost crashed Dad's Edsel several times dropping me off at work but by God she drove me in every day, that marvelous woman." Sal said reminiscently. "God I miss living with her. We used to take turns making breakfast for each other in the mornings."

There was a youthful voice behind Sal's dark curls. "How come you don't live with her again, now you're um, single?"

Father Gill coughed. "It's not really important, Billy."

"No no, the child must learn, LEARN, John.!" Sal said theatrically. "Billy, I'm afraid after Kitty caught me with the florist, and left, she called my parents, and Daddy wants to put me in a-a hospital. And this girl is too old for shock treatments."

Father Gill looked at Sal affectionately. He wanted to grab Sal and kiss him right now, hold Sal's head and promise him that nothing like that would ever happen, but this might not be the most politic place to do that. Mother of Mary, there was a cop right in front of the building of Sal's future employment!

When Johnny had been caught in a midnight embrace with Devol Corrigan in a seminary broom closet, old Brother Pawlicz, who always stomped through the locker room preaching "custody of the eyes" had only gruffly whispered to the startled thirteen year olds that they should go back to the dorm separately when they were "finished" …Pawlicz had either been a very macho fairy, or just very, very sympathetic.

Sal looked behind him. "Billy, you put that book down, and for God's sake, leave it in Johnny's back seat. I doubt anyone at Sterling Cooper has heard of Isherwood but really…we can't take chances."

Sal reached behind him and ruffled Billy's hair, gently removing the battered paperback copy of "Goodbye To Berlin" and dropping it on the seat next to him. "Now you look divine, darling boy and thank you for wearing the tie, a big thank you, I know you're not crazy about them."

Billy grinned. "I don't know why you hired me, Sal. I can't draw worth a darn." He attempted to loosen his tie, and Father Gill smiled as he saw Sal slap the boy's hand in the rearview mirror.

Sal looked at Johnny. "Johnny, can you accompany us up to the office? To see Peggy, and reassure the old fascists that your little Sally has reformed her sweet self?"

"You sure you two don't want to duck into the stalls?" snickered Billy, and the men ignored him, looking at each other longingly.

"Sal, I wore my collar because you asked me to…but I really can't. Shit, I can't park here, anyway. It's really, really illegal."

Johnny wanted Sal to get back to work, this was his dream job, after all..but he would sincerely miss Sal puttering around in the garden… or dropping into the Pilgrim's Progress of an afternoon, (dressed in tee shirt and khaki's of course )to joke around with Sal and the other queens…Sal had been happy as a waiter, but of course he missed being creative.

Johnny would be furious if those people hurt Sal again. He loved Peggy Olson, she was a good kid…But he didn't want to go up there. But Sal, damn him, was waving the cop over.

"Officer, Father Gill here needs to accompany me and my young ward into the building, would he be able to leave the car for just a few minutes?"

And the cop of course, with a strawberry pug nose right out of County Cork danced right over to open the door for Father Gill. "Fayther, me mother'd flay me alive if I didn't do the right thing for God's representative, you know."

God, these ornate lobbies, Father Gill thought. And hadn't he seen that elevator operator getting his hose cleaned in the restroom at the Port Authority station? Sal had noticed too, but he didn't say anything, just raised his bushy eyebrows at the elevator boy, and then at Billy and Father Gill.

Father Gill had met Sal under a bush, literally, in Central Park…just a year ago, and he'd been so worried, frightened…Sal had been so nice! Both of them just emerging from the closet, and Johnny had been horrified when he'd discovered that Sal was living in a seedy room in the Empire Hotel…how great it had been to give Sal a room.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Vogel had remarked how clean Sal kept his room, but that was probably because Sal spent all his nights in Johnny's room, but of course Sal always cleaned it obsessively in the morning, so Mrs. Vogel wouldn't work too hard.

As they emerged from the elevator onto the 23rd floor, Billy was looking around him in adolescent wonderment. "You know, Mom came over here just last week, I think this building, looking for an old friend. I've never seen anything like those glass doors."

"Beveled glass, isn't it beautiful" Sal said, smiling.

God, how Sal loved everything. Sal loved beautiful things, and talked about how he and Johnny would one day tour Europe to see the Sistene Chapel, the Acropolis, the Louvre. Father Gill was so pleased Everything might be all right. There was Peggy Olson, coming out to the desk as the three Brooklyn transplants opened the pretty door Billy quickly tracing "Sterling" with a finger.

When Father John Gill had first met Peggy, he'd encouraged her to come to Confession after learning (in Peggy's sister's Confession) that Peggy had gone through being With Child without marriage.

And Father Gill, having many times counseled weeping girls at the Florence Crittenden Home for Unwed Mothers, had encouraged Peggy to come to Confession herself, get things off her chest, but she'd never come.

How Father Gill envied the ability to tell it all to someone else. It would never work for him, though.

Chapter Nine

Herman "Duck" Phillips stood in the middle of Madison Avenue watching as a priest emerged from Draper's den and got back into the rusted Rambler that, in Duck's mind, was obviously double parked, and quite illegally, though the cop didn't seem to mind.

Huh. The clergy, half of them goddam fairies, get away with everything, Duck mused. Duck had spent some time in England during the glory days, oh my…they don't suck up to the Catholics there!

Duck wondered who the priest had been visiting in Draper's building. Maybe talking to the Life magazine people about birth control…the joys of the rhythm method. Sorry Father, the country's changin'.

"Excuse me, are you Mr. Phillips?" Duck turned to look at a quite voluptuous woman in about her mid thirties…looked a bit like Sterling's whore. But this redhead was lighter, not so much of a trollop, didn't lay on the war paint with a trowel like Joan did.

'Course, Peggy could use a little more rouge, but Duck liked a woman who toned it down just a bit. Yes, this woman is a happy medium. How the hell did she know who he was?

"I saw your picture in 'Advertising Age' the lady said lightly.'I understand you were instrumental in effecting the Sterling Cooper merger with a British firm, Putnam, Powell and Lowell."

Duck grunted. "Yeah, and look how well that turned out. Didn't know what was good for them, Sterling and the other main partners, and now they have this junky little shop here."

The lady smiled, and Duck wondered if she wanted him and straightened his vest. He didn't have ladies checking up on him usually. Duck wondered if Peggy was looking out of the window.

"I guess you could say I've done my homework on Sterling Cooper, Draper and Pryce." The woman said this and smiled again.

Duck shook his head. "Bunch of traitors in there. I got 'em a good deal, introduced them to a European company with connections, and all I wanted was to be—" Why was he telling a perfect stranger this? Why did she CARE?

Duck tried not to look at his new friend's breasts. What did this head want? "Stay away from those across the street, doll." Duck advised. "I got screwed and you will, too."

Duck considered pulling out his flask, but he didn't want this lady to think he was a damn lush. He'd been waiting for Peggy to come out of the building, maybe to get a sandwich, or some air. She hadn't been returning his phone calls, but hey, the scenery had gotten a lot more charming in the last five minutes. He smiled at the redhead. Yes siree.

"Actually you see that priest that just drove off?" the woman asked, pointing a gloved finger. I followed his car in a cab. This is my son's first day of work at Sterling Cooper." She paused. "I didn't want Billy to know I was that interested when he was picked up for his first day by his friends, I've never been really over protective, but there was an interesting coincidence."

Duck thought of his own weak willed son, and how the kid and his sister had fallen under the spell of his ex-bitch's new husband, a former colleague of Duck's.

"You don't look old enough to have birthed an advertising man, Miss." Duck said gallantly.

"Billy just turned sixteen" the woman said. "He's a bright boy, but he prefers to read on his own. I hated school myself, so I let it go when he left after finishing junior high…he was shining shoes outside Radio City, and then he had work I really wasn't crazy about…but now he's here, and I'm very interested in this firm."

Duck couldn't wait, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the damn flask, and took a pull. Son of a bitch, that was good.

"Nice pewter flask there" the lady said, taking it from Duck and sipping a bit herself. "Goodness."

"Like the leather coat on it?" Duck asked, pleased. "I bought it in London in '59."

The lady wiped her lipstick off the bottle and handed it back to Duck Phillips. "I hate Don Draper. Do you want to have lunch with me? My treat."

"Delighted" Duck Phillips said. "Yes siree."

Chapter Ten

"We call them trainers back home" the English guy said, somewhat snootily. He had briefly interrupted the creative meeting to have Don sign something. "You really think, Don, that marketing tennis shoes for everyday wear would be suitable fashion statement in America? It seems that people are much too casual here as it is."

Sal, holding the mock-up, looked at Billy and smiled slightly, and Billy knew what Sal was thinking…Billy was way too casual. He'd almost choked to death the first week here, damn neckties, but now he was pretty used to it.

The English guy left with his paper, and Mr. Sterling, who kept referring to Billy as "twerp" was now putting in his two cents. "Normally I think Pryce should keep his nose out of Creative, but he's right. Don, do you really think people are going to wear Keds when they're not hitting balls? They don't provide any real comfort like a real shoe does."

"My kids wear them." Mr. Draper said mildly. "And most of their friends do, and I've seen a few adults in the blue ones at barbecues."

Mr. Draper paused and lit a Luckie. "But you're right, Roger. It's a new idea. Most children are still in Buster Browns, and in high school they tend to wear saddle shoes. This is a big risk, and Ed Temple from Keds is afraid people will laugh at the prospect."

Sal nodded to Billy, who put the poster board up on the easel. Mr. Campbell, who Billy thought was awfully cute with his pretty lips, leaned forward in his chair. Billy marveled. In a dress, Mr. Campbell would look like an airline stewardess.

"What have you drawn there, Sal, it looks like a couple stomping." Mr. Campbell said, craning his neck. "The feet appear bigger than the bodies."

Sal smiled. "Yes. It's supposed to be two kids dancing, informally, like they do in basement parties, and they're wearing Keds." After a pause, Sal said "Really, it's very much like that at many parties in the neighborhood I grew up in. Leather jackets, tennis shoes, Dixiecups with wine in them."

Mr. Campbell shook his pretty head. Billy wanted to touch his hair. It seemed like it didn't move, somehow. Was it pomade? Mr. Campbell was more magnetic than Maynard G. Krebs.

"I've been to many dancing parties, I went to dancing school, and of course deb balls. I have never seen the dancers wearing tennis shoes. What sort of parties do you attend, Sal?" Mr. Campbell cocked his head.

Billy didn't like that, it was like Mr. Campbell was saying that Sal was a fruit or something, and Sal looked a little scared.

"It's the way it is in Brooklyn and Queens, at least where I live" Billy said. "All sorts of parties where guys and their GIRLFRIENDS get together in apartment basements—"

"Tenements, the twerp means" murmured Mr. Sterling, and Billy wondered if Mr. Sterling had ever been kicked in the nuts.

"But sure, kids wear saddle shoes, too, but they are wearing a lot of tennis shoes, sometimes they're called sneakers, because they're so quiet." Billy stopped short.

Everyone was looking at him, and he really wasn't supposed to talk, he was just an office boy, Sal's assistant. But Sal was looking at him gratefully, and Billy didn't care what the big shot suit guys thought.

"Yes. That's right, Benny's right." Ted Crane, a dark haired guy with horn rimmed glasses said. "The problem is, Pete, you don't live in regular America. Most people don't go to debutante balls. They're kind of getting rare. I think Brenda Frazier's dead now."

"My mother had dinner with Brenda in Martha's Vineyard just two years ago."Mr. Campbell muttered, but no one was listening to him. "His name is Billy, this young man, Ted."

Billy was flying. Mr. Campbell knew HIS NAME! Billy felt his chest expand with air. Mr. Campbell was married, but so were half the guys Billy had tricked with in the tearoom stalls by the "A "train.

Now Mr. Sterling was piping up again. "I get it, you probably were raised around all that informality, Sal, though you couldn't tell it from the way you dress—"

Sal preened at the compliment, and Billy kicked him lightly. We're in a den of lions, Billy thought resentfully.

"But they're cloth shoes, for God's sake." Mr. Sterling sipped from a little round glass. "They get wet, and they probably aren't that durable for every day wear, are they, Don?" Mr. Sterling sipped again. "We could call in Cooper for his opinion, but Bert doesn't wear shoes at all, of course, if he can help it."

Don Draper spoke slowly. "I think there's a trend, and we can help it along, although I'm not sure about your dancing poster, Sal. I understand the rubber soles of tennis shoes—specifically Keds—make it easy to walk long distances, and they are actually quite durable, and comfortable—"

"Have you ever worn them, Don?" Mr. Campbell asked, smiling.

Smile at me, Billy thought fervently, but then tried to appear somber. He wondered where Miss Olson was. She'd been awfully nice to him. Did she wear Keds?

"No, I'm afraid not, Pete, but that doesn't mean anything."Don Draper said with a smile. He lit another Lucky Strike, and leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps, Sal, you could draw something where adults—because the kids are already wearing them—are walking around, maybe doing errands, and their feet feel great."

"Or a negative ad about leather shoes making your feet sweat after a lot of work." Ted Crane said. "Bobby, do you wear-?"

"Billy!" Pete Campbell said, annoyed.

Oh, I love you Mr. Campbell! "Um, I mostly wear them at home, Mr. Crane. I like Keds a lot, I just bought these Florsheim wing tips for work, and yeah, not just for sports, the Keds I mean, they're really great." Billy said, blushing a little at the attention.

Don Draper spoke again. "Not just for sports, you can wear them anywhere! That's a slogan, isn't it?"

As the meeting cogitated, Mr. Campbell resentfully said "Not to any event I'd attend" and Billy just wanted to stroke his Pomaded head in a comforting way!

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Sally Draper boredly poked the vending machine. She really didn't want anything, but she had to stay out of Daddy's office during the meeting. Some of the secretaries were nice, and others smiled, but not with their eyes…Ever since Sally had come to Daddy's office last year when she'd run off from camp, she'd hankered to come back on her own, and Daddy had let her come to work with him today!

Jane, Bobby and little Gene were at the Bronx Zoo, but Sally thought zoos were babyish, though she and Bobby loved the Snake House. She'd have to ask Bobby if they'd brought a cobra from Africa or wherever, yet.

A tall boy with light brown hair and a chin a little like Daddy's, came into the hallway where the vending machine was. He had a big piece of white cardboard under his arm.

"What's that picture?" Sally asked, pointing.

The boy grinned and showed the big poster to Sally, putting it in front of him. A boy and a girl with big feet in TENNIS SHOES?

"They're jumping around, right?" Sally asked curiously.

"They're s'posed to be dancing" the boy scolded good-naturedly. "Does it make you want to buy tennis shoes?"

Sally pondered. "No, I was going to buy a Hershey bar, but the machine is out."

This made the boy chuckle. "I'm Billy. I know you can't work here. I think I'm the youngest employee."

"I'm Sally. My daddy is Don Draper." Sally smiled up at the friendly boy. "Daddy let me visit here. I'm interested in his work."

"Lordy day, I bet you make partner before Sal does." The boy said meditatively. "I didn't know Mr. Draper had any kids. He works awful late sometimes."

"Yup." Sally said solemnly. "He and my Mommy don't live together anymore, she's a little sick now, but even when they did, Daddy worked late a lot."

"Your mom's sick? That's too bad." Billy said sincerely. "Did she have an accident?"

"No, but she takes a lot of medicine and sleeps all the time. She takes a pill with a Seven-One-Four number on it a lot. It calms her down."

"Quaaludes." Billy smiled. "I bet it does. Does she take little red pills, too?"

"Yes!" Sally said triumphantly. "They give her lots of energy as she's trying to keep up her figure. The red pills in the morning, and the 714 Kaloos—"

"Quaaludes." Billy corrected.

"Yeah, those at night. She's—in the day on her exercise medicine—"

"Yeah, I know. When she's taking the red devils you stay out of the house, don'tcha?" Billy asked, smiling.

"How did you know?" Sally thought this boy was awfully smart. "Red devils. That's clever."

"Yeah" Billy said hurriedly, "But don't call 'em that in front of your Mom. Not such a good idea. But hey, if you want a Hershey, and your dad doesn't want you to go out of the building, I think I have one in Sal's desk, with almonds, if that's okay."

As they walked towards Sal's office, Daddy came out of his office and smiled at the two.

"Billy's going to give me a candy bar, Daddy, is that all right?"

"Of course." Daddy said, smiling. "I'm glad you've found a friend."

Chapter Twelve

"Margaret, you're damaged goods now. No boy will ever respect you, let alone marry you." Thank God for the scholarship to the Corcoran, Midge Daniels thought, smiling ruefully. Papa's views on dating had become irrelevant, and besides, he was wrong about the latter. Midge had been married, and married AGAIN.

Harry, Midge's husband du jour, stirred on the filthy couch, and then opened his eyes. "Is that guy comin' over here?" he asked, stretching. "The money one."

"Yeah, Harry, and you really should split. You don't inspire confidence in my suitors." Midge looked out the grime creased window. She really should clean. Papa wasn't right about men, but Mama had been sure right about keeping things neat. Imagine Midge waxing a floor twice a week!

"Harry, your nose is running, you better go out and buy a cap. And don't tell me you don't have any money. I gave you five bucks this morning."

But of course…a cap was two bucks and a bag, a nickel bag was five…and Harry had graduated long ago. Look at him, all distressed. But Midge liked Harry. He needed her, and it was nice to be needed.

Midge pointed to her purse, and Harry arose and went through it, finding a lone half dollar. "Sweet Christ, this is all?" Oh, those adorable bloodshot eyes.

"I'm sorry, but if you get out of here now, I will have some money later, and probably some H too. He's coming by more often, Harry. Things are in a way, looking up."

When Midge had been in high school, she'd read "Junky" and "The Golden Spike" and lots of bullshit paperbacks about heroin. Even though the authors had not tried to romanticize it, it had fascinated the sheltered girl.

But, this year a new book, "Manchild in the Promised Land" had come out, about a young colored guy growing up in Harlem, and he'd referred to heroin addiction there as "the shit plague" and Midge had to agree. But on the other hand, there was nothing like it!

Harry shuffled out, probably to ask Seth downstairs for a loan, good luck with that, and Midge desultorily got up and combed her stringy hair in the mirror. God, the old days and her wigs. She loved them, and Don Draper often teased her about her "wig habit".

Should Midge have gone to Paris with Don? He was escaping something, but it just seemed like the hard way, and at the time, Midge was really into Roy, who was not as successful as Don, or actually successful at all, but Midge didn't feel…like Roy was looking at her funny. Like Papa used to. Don was a kinder version of Papa…

But, it had been quite fortunate that Don had had an emergency at his firm, and needed an interim artist "Though of course it's quite temporary" Of course. They'd hauled Midge in to do a few drawings for the new Flexible Flyer sled, and hauled her right out again…but she'd met Roger Sterling, and they'd fallen into a thing, kinda.

The door knocked. Speak (or think) of the devil! Midge thought about makeup, but of course that was pawned, as well as the wigs, and she ambled over to the door. As she opened it, she saw that familiar thatch of REAL white hair, man.

"Hey, Roger. Good to see you." Roger picked Midge up carefully and kissed her, giving a little tongue action. Roger wasn't cute, but he was affectionate.

"How've you been, gorgeous?" Arm in arm, the two wandered to Midge's couch. Midge remembered she had a cap under the cushion, unless of course Harry had found it. Roger would need it, after of course the sermon.

She hoped he wouldn't ask for a drink. There might be some Ripple in the kitchen, but Midge wasn't sure.

"You know, honey, I wish you'd meet me in Manhattan, at the Waldorf. Of course we'd have to enter separately. But you deserve the best." Roger gave her a sunny grin.

"Yeah, I know, Roger, but you know I don't like to travel with horse if I can help it, and you—" Midge was now going to be delicate. "It's an interest of yours."

"Midge, Midge." Roger said oracularly. Here it came. "I just read an article in the Village Voice that said if you only snort the stuff, you can't get addicted, really, it's just the mainliners who lose it, you know."

But Roger was skin popping now. Midge wondered if he knew that was just before…but she just smiled at him.

Roger, as if reading her thoughts, grinned again. "I know I tried the needle on Tuesday and Sunday, but I'm going to go back to sniffing, and you really should, too." Roger stretched. "I might not even have any today. I know you're a bit short of liquor, so I brought a half pint of Schnapps."

Midge had once heard someone in a rare Alcoholics Anonymous meeting she'd attended say that "No one but alcoholics drink half pints"

"Well, do you want to make love?" Midge attempted a yearning look.

"You know, my Uncle Ralph met Billie Holliday once." Here it came. "And he'd heard Charlie Parker play, and he told me that it was so sad that people like that—and Art Pepper, too—that they lost control of promising talents, becoming addicted to a substance instead of letting it WORK FOR THEM." Roger lifted the half-pint to his mouth, and then thought better of it.

Midge got up and brought back a couple of somewhat clean jelly jars. She actually was not much of a drinker, but companionable imbibing could lead to other things…especially with Roger Sterling.

Roger poured them each a shot. "See, that's the thing. Certain chemicals are helpful, such as Phenobarbital, and a little whiskey now and then—in strict moderation." He downed the jar and poured a bit more.

Midge leaned back and listened to Roger give her some confused statistics about addictions to heroin, cocaine, Morphine, and even Percodans. He then informed her that he did push-ups three times a week, and he and his wife Jane were thinking of purchasing a rowing machine, that you could put next to the divan.

Midge put a hand on Roger's leg and smiled. "So you don't want to—do you want a massage, or to make love?"

Roger leaned back and gave her a Groucho Marx wiggle of the fingers. "You bet…but perhaps if you have a little powder, we could just do a small amount. I haven't had any since yesterday morning."

Midge was surprised. "Yesterday? You weren't here yesterday."

"Oh, the bell captain at the Waldorf—never mind, it was a one time thing." Roger gestured. "Do you have a needle, or something? It helps the lovemaking, just a bit."

Midge nodded, but conscience pricked her. "But you said you wanted to return to snorting, because you are staying in shape."

Roger smiled gamely. "I am, and I'm actually going to take a week off of all that stuff, after tonight. Though I'll be here to talk about art. But just one little hit, I'll close my eyes, I've never liked needles."

As Midge walked to the kitchen to find spoon to burn the H in, she wondered how Don Draper was doing.

Chapter Thirteen

"Talk to me." Trudy Campbell said, looking into Pete's eyes. "Why—why don't you want to make love anymore? Is it the baby? Is it my figure?"

"N-no, you're—you're a lovely girl, Trudy." Pete muttered. "I just have been working too hard. I'm a partner now, you know." Pete said that ten times a day, to cabbies, news dealers, or whoever would listen. Trudy was probably sick of it, but she always smiled.

Pete Campbell knew Trudy was very smart—certainly not smarter than HIM, though at their engagement party, a fattish girlfriend of hers referred to Pete as a "dim bulb".

Eavesdroppers seldom hear good of themselves, Nana Dyckman told Pete once when he came weeping to her with a similar complaint about Bud's opinion of him, when they were kids, but it was always good to gather ammunition. Not ammunition. Information.

Like CIA. What an agent Pete would make! Had he not failed the Foreign Service Exam, Pete might have made serious inquiries. Really, if Bert Cooper had listened to Pete's information about Draper just a few years ago, Pete might have been a partner much sooner.

"But Pete, I miss you—physically." Trudy was so beautiful, so earnest, and many men had been smitten by her, including that idiot publisher, her first fiancée. But Pete was going through a phase he couldn't really explain.

At Kamp Wahee-Kokii, up in the Catskills, Pete had been quite close with another camper, Chris, and they'd wrestled a bit, and just a little more…just kid stuff, of course.

But Pete had kicked himself for his weakness in sneaking behind the cabins with Chris, and to help him break it off, he'd informed the Director, a good friend of Father's, that Chris, who didn't have a lot of moolah and was up for a counselor job next year was…a little "funny".

Mr. Philpott had kept the information to himself, and Chris had no idea why he'd been asked to leave in mid-summer, never to return as camper or employee of Kamp Wahee-Kokii again. He couldn't suspect Pete, of course, as Pete had been the one who had gone begging to HIM, night after night, for a bit of "wrestling."

And now…Pete had proven he wasn't a homosexual, a degenerate, a sodomite…he'd cut quite a swathe in the young ladies in after parties, et cetera, there had been a few affairs, and he'd impregnated Peggy, for God's sake…he was a man! And he hadn't ducked into the Port Authority bus station restroom for anything more than a whiz in more than a year.

Of course, stimulation was necessary. Trudy had asked him, as had his college roommate "Why do you keep so many muscle magazines around? You don't lift weights." But Pete Campbell was a private person. A man of Mystery…yes.

This thing with Billy, the art director's assistant had to stop. Twice in the john with a chair against the door, and once at the Waldorf (he seemed to see Roger Sterling there a LOT) and that was it. Kid stuff. Because of all the damn pressure.

Tomorrow he would tell Billy, no more. Pete wasn't going to be like Uncle Hollis, blackmailed by his gentleman's gentleman…and Uncle Hollis would have been a great Senator, a statesman. Hollis had given Roosevelt a lot of trouble over those alphabet agencies…called FDR "Comrade" while in Congress, and Hollis had been a close friend of Roy Cohn, Joe McCarthy's number one man.

But he'd been brought down by the nonsense with the nosy butler, and Pete wouldn't have any of that. But perhaps he should call Billy tonight. Tell him on the phone. Pete had tried that LAST night, but they'd gotten distracted, and he just couldn't hurt Billy's feelings—those big blue eyes—in person.

"Trudy, I'm going to have a cup of warm milk—you don't have to get it for me, dear" But Trudy had already turned over. She was a great girl, and by God, Pete would straighten out this nonsense, and if he held back on the self-abuse as well, he'd be ready for his darling, romance wise. Just that one call.

Billy answered on the second ring. Thank God his mother didn't answer this time. She seemed to have a funny, rather cynical voice…unhappy woman. It must be very sad to be the mother of a sodomite.

"Hello Billy. It's Mr. Campbell."

"Hey Mr. Campbell! I wanted to have coffee with you after work but—"

"That's all right. I hope you are enjoying your first month at the office."

"It's swell. The work is nifty, and Sal—Mr. Romano, has taught me how to letter, which is a great skill. I could do it for comic books even, later on, though I can't draw worth a darn."

"Stay clear of Salvatore Romano, after work, Billy. He's a man of perverse habits."

"What do you mean? Perverse?"

"It's not important, I guess. He-uh…"

"You want to play our Twenty Questions, Mr. Campbell?"

"YOU DIDN'T TELL SAL…"

"No, of course not. But I thought you'd like to play. Mom told me you called earlier."

Pete knew he would have to be firm now. Although Billy was young, he was leaning towards being a fairy. So he might take this badly, he really might. Pete hoped Billy wouldn't cry.

"Billy…I want to talk to you, and I want you to be mature."

"Sure, Mr. Campbell. I just got out of the shower, so I'm drying off."

"The-the shower?" The boy had quite an athletic figure. Normally Pete was in a kneeling position when he and Billy spent time together, and he just saw the boy's um privates…Billy kept his shirt on. But that time at the Waldorf! Troy Donahue couldn't have looked better, and Pete had seen everything…the shower.

"Mr. Campbell? If you don't want to play Twenty Questions, can you tell me quick what you want? I told my mom I would paint her toenails."

What a sad, degenerate boy. And the mother! Goodness. Pete would try to—but it was late. Perhaps this would be conversation for tomorrow.

"All right, Billy, just for fun, then I bet I can stump you in ten questions! I'm touching a part of me that's smaller than a basketball…if you can't guess, I'll just keep touching it…"

An hour later, Pete Campbell got into bed, listening to Trudy's light snore…he wondered how poor Billy had gotten so sick in the head. Must've been Sal Romano. If they weren't so desperate for a good art director, Pete would make a serious complaint to Don Draper.

Pete punched his pillow and lay his head down. Honestly, he couldn't be mean to poor Billy right now. The young man needed a-a mentor. And Pete had been an Eagle Scout!

Chapter Fourteen

"Duck, I'm a property manager. I have no idea how to run an advertising agency." It fascinated Willa how Duck Phillips seemed to sweat when he veered a bit from the truth. How the devil did he make it in advertising? And how was this going to help her in her mission, which she didn't really know much of the details, to make Dick pay for what he'd put her through?

"Willa, as I told you the other night, I am a bit of a freelancer now, but I have run accounts at a number of agencies…I thought of starting my own agency about eighteen months ago, and actually approached a copywriter, Peggy Olson, at SCDP, to work with me, but I'm afraid Miss Olson has courage issues about a lot of things." Duck was trying to not drink, it was obvious to Willa, but he looked a little ridiculous sipping at a Shirley Temple.

Let's see, what do I know now? Willa had learned of old that the best way to make a man spill was to take him between the sheets, and she'd heard him refer to a former paramour as "Peggy". And she knew, from one of her other clients, a gumshoe who liked to be flogged with a rubber car fan belt, that Duck had been fired from a number of agencies for drinking and of course, false bravado.

Willa had seen lots of THAT in every other man she'd ever met, from her father on. Insecure but domineering and loud. She had worried that Duck might learn more about HER employment, but he talked so much that it was easy to keep things to herself. And it was true, Willa was a manager (and owner) of a number of properties, from the five boroughs to Hoboken, New Jersey.

Willa had thought one day Billy could manage the properties for her, but he was so enthusiastic about his work at Dick's—no Don's agency, that Willa was now wondering if she should encourage him to go back to school.

Certainly she didn't want to bring the agency down in flames, now that Billy was working there, somehow that had been Plan Numero Uno. Or Ichiban, the number for one in Chinese. Willa loved languages. She hadn't told Duck who Dick was (alliterative) but she had let him know that she'd been seriously mistreated by him, and about Billy, who of course was a blessing, adorable child since birth, despite his proclivities, but—Dick had just RAN. He hadn't even argued with her that day in the carriage house.

He'd said he had to go home and see about the milking and he'd be back in half an hour, and she'd waited a bit, and then gone by the farm two days later, and after a string of expletives, his stepfather or uncle or whatever he was said that Dick had just disappeared.

Later she'd overheard Dick's mother telling someone at the Post Office that they'd gotten word Dick was in the Army, and had gone to Korea. But when Willa had approached for further information, the bitch had slapped her, right there in the damn Post Office.

Willa had stolen the milk and egg money, what little there was of it, and seven months later, Billy was born in Brooklyn. Shortly thereafter, Willa had discovered that there were men with far more unusual proclivities than Billy's who would pay quite a bit…for company. And Willa, never interested in hooch or H, had invested her numerous profits. In real estate.

And Duck was well aware, though she'd not admitted it, that Willa was more of an owner than a manager of various properties (Actually, she had someone else, an accountant who liked pink tutus, do almost all of it, leaving her and Billy lots of time for books and museums.)

Duck had sharp eyes, if a loose mouth, and he'd really checked out the place Willa lived, in Brooklyn, but quite nice, and it probably hadn't helped that someone down the hall had asked her to see about a leaky faucet. And of course Willa had an account at "21" and had introduced Duck to friends at Elaine's and the Algonquin…To Duck Phillips, respect indicated money, and Willa had plenty of both.

"You see, Willa, we can kill two or three birds with one stone here." Duck said, grimly sipping his Shirley Temple. "We start a small agency that takes clients from Sterling, I can find other ways to screw Draper over for you—your screwing him didn't help—" Duck snorted.

Another problem was, Duck thought he was a wit. Regrettable, Willa believed, but she kept smiling. Duck was under the impression that Willa just worshipped him, and that was a useful impression, indeed.

"And then, we can bring your boy over to Phillips-Primrose after he has some experience. Shit, I'll hire Romano too, he's a fairy, you know, shit, I don't care. I'll bring him up in the business. My pop was in advertising, and he taught it to me."

As she watched Duck puff his chest, Willa marveled at the mistakes he had made—one of which had been to give up a paying airline company—no bird in the hand for Mr. Phillips—for an unsuccessful plea to American Airlines after the big crash in '61. There had been other stupid mistakes, and Willa had chortled (inwardly) after learning that Duck's wife had run off with one of his business partners…

But it was one idea, this bullshit agency, and perhaps Duck could teach Billy something—and then if Billy liked, he could go on somewhere else, and Willa could disband the Phillips-Primrose thing…Willa wished Billy wasn't so much of an autodidact…it would be simpler to just send him to Columbia…but like mother, like son, right? Actually, like father, too…Dick hadn't finished high school either, and look at him.

"But the best part is" Duck said earnestly, "Someone is joining us here. I love it that we are at Sardi's. You'll have to cover her bill as well, but she is a brilliant consumer researcher, and if you decide to go with my investment idea, Dr. Miller—or Miss Miller, but she is a psychologist, would be a great partner for this work.

Before Willa could stop this um, snowballing of Duck's she heard a voice and looked up to see a blonde, either Italian or Jewish..sexy lips!

"Hi Duck" the blonde said in a Brooklyn accent. "And you must be Miss Primrose, or is it Mrs.? I'm Faye Miller."

Suddenly Willa felt like half the competence in New York had just arrived.

Chapter Fifteen

Betty Francis, nee Draper just knew that Sally had sneaked the shorts out under her skirt. Shorts in school! Certainly, this was 1965, you weren't sent home any more for wearing white dungarees, but really.

Not twelve until the fall, and already Sally was taking those tiptoe steps to becoming a little tramp. Betty of course had also sneaked forbidden clothes to school, but Betty was a far more sensible kid at twelve than her daughter, who had too much of Don Draper in her. The bed-hoppin' Draper gene indeed.

Betty sighed, and looked at her new prescription bottle. She'd decided to let Boniface do the cleaning, and she didn't feel like exercising, much too agitated lately. Dr. Thalberg had noticed that Seconal wasn't as effective with Betty any more, or Fiorinal either, so he'd recommended a sedative that had been popular for a while, Valium.

Francine, back in Ossining, knew a woman who liked Valium so much she'd crushed it on a table and snorted it with a straw! Betty giggled. Are housewives that jittery? Betty was reluctant to try the Valium so early in the day.

Henry had complained that Betty was too lackadaisical, was that his word? "Not as much fun" or something to that effect. On the other hand, Betty felt so relaxed on the right medication. Dr. Thalberg had explained that there were chemical imbalances in the brain, and new stuff was coming in all the time from labs in Jersey…to restore us all to mental health!

Gene was sleeping, thank goodness. If you just cut a little (very little) smidgen of powder off a 'lude and mixed it in a toddler's Ovaltine, it really made for a nice, long nap.

There was a knock at the kitchen door, Betty hopped up, dropping the Valium prescription into her apron pocket. Opening the door, she smiled at Stan Skitowska.

"Stan, I'm afraid we don't need our hedges trimmed today…" What a big, strong boy. Nice looking, short hair. It seemed like whenever Betty went into the city, it was flooded with long-hairs. Everyone wanted to look like the Beatles.

Betty had tried to interest Sally in GOOD music, Rudy Vallee, Sinatra, but the child was mesmerized by messy men. Paul and Ringo and the others had looked only moderately unbarbered on the Ed Sullivan show, but now they were positively shaggy. Soap and work are four letter words, but certainly decent ones!

Stan leaned in and kissed Betty right on the mouth. Betty closed her eyes and opened her lips for his protruding tongue. She knew she shouldn't encourage this, but Henry was, well, a drip.

Pulling Stan inside the kitchen, Betty attempted to guide him to the stairs, but of course he insisted on laying her on the kitchen table. Even clean cut men could be a bit unstable.

"It's been days since I saw you last, Mrs. Draper." Stan said huskily.

"Well, the kids will be home at three-thirty, so we have to be brief."

"My middle name!"Stan said, and cleared the table of dishes and glasses with a swipe.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Fifteen

Peggy was enjoying going to Mass more, though she wouldn't make it every Sunday, now that Sal Romano was attending Father Gill's sermons. He was so funny! Outside, the parishioners were enjoying the spring air before trooping downstairs for coffee and donuts.

"It was a nice sermon, Father Gill, but you focus way too much on Vietnam, really you need to—"

Peggy rudely interrupted her mother, who was standing between Sal and Father Gill. "It was a dynamic sermon, Father, and I feel like Sterling Cooper seems to be trotting over here, a growing number of people. Billy was here last week, your assistant, Sal, though he didn't take Communion."

Father Gill smiled. "I actually invited Billy to come this Sunday as well, but he said that one of the partners at the firm has taken a shine to him, and is going to teach him about bodybuilding, or something."

"That's so nice" Mrs. Olson said. "At the YMCA?"

"No, at the Waldorf, actually" Sal muttered, and Peggy saw Father Gill kick him. Really, Sal could be a caution!

"Father—"Jerry, Peggy's brother-in-law interrupted, "Do you really think it's all right to eat roast beef on Fridays now? Just seems too good to be true. I love the no Latin part-"

Jerry pronounced "part" "paaht" Peggy hated these people sometimes.

"Oh, I miss the Latin" Sal said smoothly. "I was an altar boy, and I loved it. Almost joined the priesthood for it. But it is nice not having to chow down on fish sticks, right?"

Father Gill went into an explanation about Vatican II and Peggy wandered off.

Peggy had a lot to think about. She was having a fling, she guessed…with Don Draper.

Chapter Sixteen

Astonishing, just astonishing. Pete Campbell sat in the pool at the Everard Baths and looked around, and yes, it was astonishing. There was Thurman Bigelow of Proctor & Gamble! Pete had just seen Thurm and his wife at the Stork Club. And speaking of restaurants…there was Jean-Pierre, the maitre'd of El Morocco! Good God, Jean-Pierre has a big one.

Thurman Bigelow's gut was huge, Pete thought, meditatively. Look at him with the Oriental boy. Pete had to admit, he cut a better form than at least half the men here, though he wouldn't mind getting to know Thurm's little Filipino himself.

Was Thurm ducking under the water to…How can you hold your breath and do THAT? Pete had had quite a record for underwater swimming back at Kamp Wahee-Kokii…perhaps he and Billy should try that! Quite an adventure it would be.

Where WAS Billy? Pete didn't know what had gotten over the boy lately. At first Pete had been telling Billy that they couldn't continue this, that he was mentally healthy, and this wrestling about in the lav was, kid stuff.

Sure, Pete had done it in and out of public toilets for years, once when he and Trudy and the Cosgroves had gone to a public park in Oyster Bay, Pete had met a nice young man in the uh, facilities. Wonder how he was doing now, what was his name? Diego? What a moustache!

And Pete had had quite a time in the bathrooms, both in boarding school and at Dartmouth. There was one in Ryerson Hall that was positively Babylonic. If you didn't understand about Sodom and Gomorrah in Sunday School, get a load of Ryerson's john!

You could turn into a pillar of salt looking behind you as you left, that bathroom. Pete had notified the police right before he'd graduated. It's not good to let that sort of thing go on, and especially at a good school like Dartmouth!

But now it seemed that Billy was also starting to pull away, he was too busy to duck into Cooper's private bathroom after work…and recently he'd told Pete, "Mr. Campbell, I think you should meet more people like us…make other friends."

US? What the hell did that mean? Peter Dyckman Campbell was not a damn fairy. Not by a long shot. Phases during a strained marriage (the baby cried all night, it seemed) created peculiarities in some, and this was just a phase.

Good God, was that Jimmy Barrett? He'd been our man for the Utz potato chip commercials, back at the original Sterling Cooper…and now he had a TV program, his own show, and here he is, brazenly in this den of iniquity…

Barrett was married, had things to hide, and so did Pete…and where was Pete? Here! In Sodom!

It almost seemed as if Billy had dragged Pete to this—depraved but certainly interesting bathhouse so Pete could meet another chap for assignations. And that was the last thing Pete wanted, though there seemed to be quite a few bodybuilders here, really.

There was a splash. "Campbell! Good to see you here! Interested in the hygiene?"

Pete looked up, startled. Ned Pomeroy! Chubby Ned, here at the Everard!

"I'm just here for the Turkish Bath treatment, Pomeroy" Pete said stuffily. He tried to avoid gazing at Pomeroy's lawn of red chest hair. Some people really should keep their shirts on!

Once, Pete's mother had told him that there were more reasons than morality for the old two-piece bathing suits of the Twenties. Yes, Ned could really use a big, striped two piece to cover him up.

"Oh, me too. Just here for the hygiene, great joke. Loved the boy you came in with, by the way."

"How's um, Mary Grace?" Pete asked, noting uncomfortably that Ned's dong was rising in the pool water. Maybe he wasn't a homosexual after all, this was revolting.

"She's with the kids at her mother's. We're trying to figure out whether to nickname Edward Pomeroy Five Eddie or Ted. I'm Ned, and Dad was Trey. Perhaps Skip."

Oh my God, there's a Negro. And he was making for their side of the pool.

"Got to go, Campbell, my ride's here!" Pete watched in horror as Ned Pomeroy, a deacon at St. Mary's Episcopal, climbed out of the pool and embraced the large Negro, pushing his tongue into the boy's mouth for what they called "tonsil hockey" back at Deerfield mixers.

Damn it, where was Billy?

Chapter Seventeen

"You know" Peggy Olson said, as she and Don Draper lounged on his office couch, "Years ago, when I first got Freddy Rumsen's office, and was promoted to senior copywriter, Pete asked me how I got my own office, and I joked that I was sleeping with you."

Don smiled. Peggy was amazing. She'd gone from his timorous secretary to a full copywriter with her own team, and if Roger and Bert weren't such fossils, she'd probably have made partner by now. It was so different than the way Don had gotten Roger to hire him—through lies and getting Roger drunk.

"And now you really are, and I can't believe it!" Don looked searchingly at Peggy. She hadn't made any demands of him yet…why couldn't he stay faithful to Megan? Why couldn't he have stayed faithful to Betty, for that matter…

But there were no demands, so far. But sometimes men go crazy too. Roger, after all had begun his affair with Jane, who'd made no demands, and yet, he'd divorced Mona and begged Jane to marry him at near ruinous result to the firm.

"Well, I put my hand on yours the first day I worked here as a secretary, remember? But I guess I wanted something…but now I have everything I could want materially, and I want you, too!" Peggy beamed at Don.

"Don't say that, Peggy." Don admonished her. "You don't have everything you want, materially, and if you do, you're a fool. If you're not a partner by—1970? I'll eat my hat." Hey, Cooper could be dead by then.

Peggy and Don knew so much about each other. He'd gone to see her after her breakdown, and advised her to forget it ever happened, and she'd returned the favor, bailing him out of jail when he'd gotten in the drunk driving accident with that hag, Bobbi Barrett.

Every time Don saw "Grin and Barrett" on the television, Tuesday nights, he became a bit ill. Felt good punching Jimmy in the face…if it wasn't for Jimmy's mouth, Don might still be married to Betty, really.

"Don, what are you thinking?" Peggy asked dreamily.

When a woman asked you that—always trouble.

Something had happened between Don and Peggy, though they had so far, only made love five times, always in this office. Peggy had mentioned going to her apartment, or possibly a hotel, but Don always demurred. There was something about just being here, as if it wasn't really happening.

But with those big blue eyes staring at him, Don knew that he would probably have to shit or get off the pot, so to speak, pretty soon…

"It's funny, I told you about the baby, and my mother thought, when you came to see me at St. Mary's, that you were the father—that we were a couple, but you were married."

Oh God, that female nattering. "Peggy, I told you in the hospital to forget all that. We're here, now, and we're having—fun." Well, passion, anyway.

"Well Don" Peggy said brightly, as he laid his hand on her breast. "If you don't want to discuss the past, how about talking about the future?"

Don Draper needed a drink. Fast.

Chapter Eighteen

Duck Phillips's father had raised him to be hard. "Unless it's broken or bleeding, don't come whining to me." "Children should be seen and not heard." "Let him cry, we need the rain." Duck had used similar maxims with his own kids, and he knew they hated him for it, now…but they'd appreciate it one day.

Duck's Dad had died at 67, after 42 years in advertising, and sometimes Duck didn't know if he'd ever really had a connection with his Dad, but wasn't that all psychology claptrap? He thought of this, because it troubled him that Willa babied her boy, Billy.

Duck felt as if he were in love for the first time. What a woman! And she was considering putting the firm together; they were still in intense negotiations. But it alarmed him that she and Billy were "friends"…you couldn't do that with a boy, go shopping with him, discuss music and literature…there should be distance.

At the other end of Willa's parlor, the two of them were having some silly argument about Mr. Darcy of the book "Pride and Prejudice". Maybe Duck should take the boy out shooting. But Billy thought he was a wit. He'd asked if they'd be sitting in a "duck blind".

The bell rang. "Now, Miss Ignoramus," Billy said, chucking his mother under the chin, playfully, "Think about my wise words whilst I answer the door."

Willa swatted Billy's behind with a rolled up "New York Post" as he skipped to the entrance. "Pete Campbell! What are you doing here?"

And then, Campbell's desultory voice "I was just in the neighborhood, Billy."

In Brooklyn? Duck's eyes wandered. Campbell was wandering through Brooklyn?

Duck leaned forward in his chair, forgetting his gimlet. Jesus, look at Campbell, he's pouting…the lower lip trembling, like Mark, Duck's son could get when he didn't get his way as a five year old.

"I-I wanted to see you, Billy." Campbell was saying to Willa's boy. "You don't answer my calls, and I've been—I've missed our weightlifting lessons." He smiled at Willa. "I'm Peter Campbell, and I'm a mentor of Billy's at work."

Willa gave Pete an amused grin. "You seem a little skinny to be teaching bodybuilding, or is it the other way around?" She tickled her son, and he snickered.

"Well, I am a regular member of the YMCA, you understand." Pete said a bit stiffly. Suddenly, Pete noticed Duck.

"Hello, Campbell" Duck said, rising, trying to look like he owned the place. "I am a friend of William's mother, Willa here." He smiled genially.

It had been such a shame that Campbell and Duck had stopped working together. When Duck had orchestrated the takeover of the original Sterling Cooper by Putnam Powell, he'd hoped to be President and to have Campbell take over as Accounts Manager…shame it didn't work out.

"It's good to see you, Duck." Campbell came and gave Duck a warm handshake. "We miss your expertise at the firm sometimes." Damn it, Campbell always knew the right thing to say. Duck preened.

"Morning, Dad! Willa—Billy!" Mark, Duck's son came down the hall. Duck was glad the boy had made a friend in Billy. Mark had been dismissed in his freshman year at Princeton—some crazy accusation by a fellow member on his track team.

Mark and his stepfather didn't get along, and Duck's place was a bit small, but after Duck had introduced Mark to his girlfriend and her son, Mark and Billy had hit it off like a house afire! And Billy was letting Mark stay in his room, been almost a month now.

Look at the boys—using wrestling holds, a half Nelson, right there in the living room. "Settle down, fellas." Duck said, smiling. Mark at least would be a good influence on Billy…manliness.

"You're such a sleepyhead, Mark" Billy grinned as he ruffled Mark's hair.

"Well, someone kept me up all night!" Mark giggled wildly.

Strangely, Pete Campbell seemed annoyed. He was always in a snit at the firm over something.

"So that's the way it is, is it, Billy?" Campbell gritted his teeth. Duck wondered if Campbell was losing it over at Draper's regime.

"I'm—I'm sorry, Pete. But yeah, I'm um, doing calisthenics with Mark now."

As Campbell slammed out of the apartment, Duck was glad he hadn't asked Pete to be Accounts Manager at the new firm he, Willa and Fay Miller were setting up. The boy was clearly unstable…

Chapter Nineteen

"So we're going to encourage people to buy on credit?" Continually, it seemed, Bert Cooper was horrified. If it wasn't one thing, it was the next. "I remember when Bank Americard came out in '58, that was bad enough…but now another one Super Charge? And it'll be available to all classes, it seems."

"But it started in California." Pete Campbell said earnestly. "Very progressive there, and you know, if they want to advertise, the Super Charge folks, they'll get it, here or someplace else."

"Mr. Campbell, I have been in advertising since you were a gene in your grandmother's eye…I am well aware of the implications of refusing Super Charge's business." Young pups, Cooper thought. Sassy, worse than Peanut was in his first year at the firm, this boy Campbell.

Speaking of Peanut, Cooper wondered where Roger was right now. He never seemed to be in his office anymore, and spent much too much time in peculiar conversations with the elevator operator.

But could he lecture Roger? No, and of course the rest of the staff seemed very unreliable, Cooper considered.

One of the secretaries was reading a piece of filth entitled "Sex and the Single Girl" and had the temerity to look annoyed when Cooper tore it in half. Think of her mother! The firm was shattering, slowly, it seemed.

"My folks have had a Diner's Club card for years." Ted Crane said, apparently trying to be helpful. Cooper was nauseous over this.

The Diner's Club required you pay the full balance each month, but it was much looser with these new cards, you didn't have a fixed list of restaurants, you could just buy anything, anywhere and pay back at your leisure. Disgusting!

Cooper looked miserably at Don. Draper would know what to do. And of course, the money issue was a big one.

"I think we have some good ideas for the Super Charge…bus ads, billboards, and television." Don spoke slowly, but Bert Cooper respected Don's judgment on just about everything.

Romano, the sodomite and his boy assistant set up an easel with a poster, showing a woman in a fur with a tiny card in her red nails, telling a joyous store clerk to "Charge It!" Bert Cooper rubbed his eyes. Women would go mad.

"The encouragement of wealth could be a good commercial, maybe on TV between the Red Skelton Hour and the Beverly Hillbillies. I understand that is a program that is about the nouveau riche." Campbell said enthusiastically.

"How did they come up with Super Charge?" young, blond Ken Cosgrove asked, cocking his head.

"It's a working title. It may be excessive, implying you should buy on credit at super-speed like Superman, but we want people to feel like they're…masters of their own destinies." Pete Campbell said, somewhat excitedly.

Suddenly, Billy, Romano's assistant grinned. "Just being silly, but you could call it Master Charge!"

Everyone in the meeting looked at him.

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER

Sally Draper looked at Billy and giggled again. "It's…it feels like my throat is filled with air from a heating vent." But gamely, she pulled at the the funny cigarette.

Billy looked down over the edge of the roof. He thought he saw Mr. Sterling's white head way down there. "Well, you asked me for some. Don't say you didn't ask."

Sally laughed. "I've not seen you in a long time, though, Billy. I was just a little kid, the last time I visited Daddy here, when you gave me the candy bar. It was before, you know—he married Megan." Sally took a long drag on the joint, and passed it back to Billy.

As the acrid smoke filled Billy's lungs, he thought about this. A lot had happened, Mr. Draper had married Megan, his secretary, and she tried being a copy writer, and left, and was acting on a soap opera now.

Some people get the luck. Not so much others, though. Sal Romano had been let go from the firm again, and Billy, not quite eighteen, was doing a lot of Sal's art work. Also, Lane Pryce had offed himself. That was too bad.

"I think I feel it!" Sally said, and Billy looked at her, laughing in spite of himself. He didn't have the heart to tell her that most people didn't get the reefer buzz the first time. Billy looked at Sally very seriously. Was she really his half sister?

Mom had told Billy that she had known Mr. Draper a long time ago, sure, and that Billy was the fruit (get it?) of her um, thing with him back on some farm in Oklahoma or somewhere.

Mom had considered starting a competing ad agency with Duck Phillips, an old nemesis of Mr. Draper's, but this had fizzled after she discovered that Duck was a juicer, big time. So Billy was still working here at Sterling Draper, and keeping his head low and looking casually at Don Draper, to figure out…was this really Dad?

"You can tell him if you want" Mom had said to Billy. "I have never seen anyone more self-interested than Dick Whitman. He'll probably fire you, Billy. Give you a bunch of money to go away. Who cares? We have money enough, right?"

And so Billy was keeping mum for just a little bit.

"My mother has lost her mind." Sally said confidentially to Billy as she almost dropped the reefer over the building. Maybe she was stoned after all, Billy thought.

"How you mean?" Billy asked, taking the joint and consuming what was left of it in a big lunge.

"She's gotten real fat, and she dyed her hair black. Her husband thinks she looks like Elizabeth Taylor, but she really looks like Betty Rubble."

Billy almost fell over the ledge laughing. The "Flintstones" was a trip. It was too bad that the company didn't do cigarette ads, because the new commercials with Fred and Barney smoking Winstons were just hilarious.

Billy had been up on the roof with Ted Crane, the dude with the glasses, and Crane was much harder to smoke with than Sally—he was always going on about how intense his experience was, and offering up "insights". It seemed to Billy that since everyone had taken up smoking tea, all the college people, you couldn't just sit there anymore.

They just couldn't shut up. All about planets, and intuition, and who listens to all that?

Billy had been up here with Peggy Olson once, before she'd left the firm, and when she was in the experience, she looked really sad. It wasn't supposed to be that way with reefer. It was just for fun. Why did smart people get all upset?

Sally leaned close to Billy, and it looked like, even for a first-timer, she had it. Yes sir she did. Billy had started smoking reefers with Mom's Negro musician friends when he was even younger than Sally was now, and he was a pretty good expert.

"Did I tell you what happened to me when I went to see Daddy get his award from the cancer society?"

Oh, those bleary eyes. Billy hoped he wouldn't get in trouble. But he shook his head.

"I-we were with Megan's parents, French type people, but from Canada, and Megan's mom, who is real old, like fifty, went into a clubroom with Roger Sterling, and I looked in there by mistake, I was trying to find the bathroom—and she had his thing in her mouth."

Sally paused sleepily. "I mean it, she was on her knees and he was sitting in a chair with his pants down, and she had her mouth on his nasty."

Billy paused carefully. "Well, y'know, people have fun in private ways. It doesn't hurt anything if no one sees." Of course she saw, so it did kind of hurt.

"I-but it was gross. Would you let a woman put your thing in her mouth, it might bite." Sally looked earnestly at Billy, and he marveled at how red her eyes were right now.

A woman? "No." Billy answered quite honestly. Billy thought of Pete Campbell, who had ended their restroom trysts after having a meeting with his pastor, or something. Billy had wanted to stop it anyway with Pete; thank goodness for pastors.

Pete loved having Billy's thing in his mouth, though. Right now Billy had a friend, a new guy he met in the park, who was home from Viet Nam on leave…looked a little bit like Pete Campbell. But he was a hell of a lot more decent.

"Do you think my father let's women put his thing in their mouths?" Sally asked, looking carefully at Billy.

"You know, it's prolly time to go back downstairs. I got work to do." Billy tried, and failed, to smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Twenty-two PEANUT HAS QUESTIONS

November, 1930

"Dad, Mother thinks you're ridic, you know?" Peanut looked at his father, shaking his head as they entered the Algonquin Hotel.

"Ridic? What sort of talk is that?" Roger Sterling, Senior, asked his hopeful offspring.

"It's the way they say ridiculous at Andover…it's cute." Peanut looked at his hopeless old man. Shit. He shouldn't have brought up Andover. But Peanut wasn't an idiot…Father was, though! Selling the Model A agency, just as Peanut was ready to drive again, damn it.

Dad had probably forgotten about the wrecked Stutz Bearcat, and the mess Peanut had made of the Willys, and was ready now to perhaps let Peanut have a go at a Ford Lowboy Sedan…what a rod!

But if Dad really sold the auto agency, the cars wouldn't be cheap anymore. Certainly not for Peanut, anyway. And President Hoover (not related to ; Peanut had won a bet on this while at Choate, which he'd also left rather abruptly) said times were terrible, he was declaring a moratorium on war debts…Did Dad ever listen to the radio?

As Peanut and Roger Sr. passed the famous Round Table, where all the writers sat, Dad winked at a dark haired lady…Miss Parker was Dad's special "friend", and had been the topic of much venomous discourse from Mother.

"Writers are funny people, Peanut." Father said, clapping his son on the shoulder. "Writers and artists. A terrible waste of time for a sensible person, but I do enjoy the plays, nonetheless."

"But Dad…isn't advertising—isn't it a lot like writing? There's no money around anyway for most people. Mr. Pfeffers, my Economics teacher says—"

"Isn't he the one whose bald head you glazed at St. Paul's?" Father laughed loudly, and propelled his son to the table where Uncle Burt was sitting. Uncle Burt was not a real uncle, but an old family friend. He was such a antithesis to Father—Uncle Burt had a beard and didn't even use pomade cream!

"So you're at liberty again, Peanut?" Uncle Burt shook hands heartily with Peanut, who smiled. Uncle Burt was always far more amused by Peanut than his parents were, and had given Peanut a sailboat as a reward for being promoted into the Fifth Form at Cranbrook, just before the incident with the headmaster's daughter (who, in Peanut's opinion, could have been impregnated by at least five other guys, including one of the gardeners.)

"Just until the new semester opens up at Groton, thank goodness." Roger Sr. said as they sat down. "He's making his mother crazy with his late hours. She wants me to confiscate his latchkey." Roger, Sr. paused heavily. "You did call Dick at Groton-?"

"Yes, of course I did, Roger. Don't worry about it." Uncle Burt was such a queer duck. But Peanut noticed that he seemed to be the secret boss of everybody…what was that word? Influence.

"Did you tell them you're leaving Thompson yet?" Roger Sr. said, looking at Uncle Burt avidly.

"I did." Uncle Burt said, sipping his gin. "And I've taken a couple of accounts with me, especially a brand new account. Clarence Birdseye's frozen food."

The waiter came, and Peanut was gratified that Father ordered him a highball. Think, out there, no one was allowed to drink, not even the adults…and here Peanut was sipping away. Money was fun. But would Father have much more of it, if he went in with Uncle Burt?

"Frozen food?" Father said, looking skeptically at Uncle Burt. "What's the use in frozen food? I read about Birdseye, he's some sort of naturalist, he helped to discover the cause of spotted fever by isolating ticks?"

Peanut sipped again. This was much better than the stuff that he and Skip Skimpole had brewed in the homemade still down on the Vineyard last summer. Ticks. Ugh.

"Roger, Birdseye has found a method to preserve food, conveniently. So, even if you can't cook worth a damn, you can heat a meal in the oven that tastes all right." Uncle Burt winced. "I can't imagine that it would be particularly choice, but for single men, that sort of thing."

Peanut looked at Uncle Burt. "Belinda heats stuff up if we're late for dinner. And I don't see frozen—wouldn't it be filled with icicles, and stuff?"

"Don't mouth off, Peanut" Father said severely. "Your ideas have gotten you nowhere."

"No, no…let the boy talk." Uncle Burt said earnestly. "That's what most of America will be asking about…is it a practical solution? Birdseye learned to freeze fish with the Eskimos, and his product isn't bad. I tried a bit, and I wouldn't want it every day. But remember, Peanut, not everyone has a cook, especially a splendid one like your Belinda."

Peanut looked at Uncle Burt skeptically. "But people like that don't have much money, so who cares?" Ignoring his father's baleful look, Peanut pulled a gold cigarette case out of his jacket, and ejected a Luckie.

"Oh, that reminds me." Uncle Burt smiled. "I've given both you and your dad hell for your dependence on smoking, but I am also taking the American Tobacco Company account with me…and they are trying to get up a new market for Lucky Strikes!"

"To answer your earlier, very rude question, Peanut" Roger Sr. said between his teeth, "Although most people don't have much money, we want them to spend it on our products. There are more people without money than with, you know. If you're ever disinherited, you'll discover that forthwith."

Peanut chuckled. Mother would never disinherit him. And Mother had the money. When Dad married Mother, Gramps had derided Dad as a "worker bee."

"But more about the Lucky Strikes. What do you think would make people buy more Lucky Strikes, Peanut?" Uncle Burt asked. "We are hoping you'll come into this firm one day, too."

Peanut laughed contemptuously. "I'm going to be a yachtsman. No advertising for me." Peanut took a big drag on his cigarette. "This is good stuff, though. When my housemaster caught me smoking in his study, I told him my doctor prescribed it to exercise my lungs…he fell for it, the idiot."

Uncle Burt wrote something down on his napkin, the senile old fool.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Twenty-PERRY MASON ON WHEELS?

Harry Crane looked skeptically through his glasses at Vernon Levine, Boy Genius. You never knew with Levine. When he'd told Harry to put some spots with the "Andy Griffith Show" Harry had been amused at the idea that the same Manhattan Jews who wrote for "Dick Van Dyke" could describe the country life…but it had been quite a hit.

"He's in a wheelchair, Harry, and he fights crime." Levine said, sipping coffee. "We may even have him engage in hand-to-hand combat, since he can't use his feet."

Crane looked out the window of the diner. NBC had gotten quite strange. What sort of commercials could one float for an audience watching Raymond Burr, Perry Mason, in a wheelchair? "Does he date beautiful women? I mean, he's…does he go to Police Headquarters from his nursing home?"

"No, no…he's cool, Ironside. Lots of upper body strength. Shows that a criminal's bullet doesn't get him down. This is one of the shows I feel real good about representing, you know? Not like when I started out with Howdy Doody, that was frickin' awful."

"Well now" Ted said, wiping his brow, and wishing he'd chosen to meet in a bar. "Not sure which commercials we can place—"

"What about the Kotex proportioned napkins? What is it you call it 'A beautiful way to keep a secret' right?" Levine snorted.

"No, that's the Tampax ad. I don't really think that would go well with a crippled detective, Vern." Harry shook his head mournfully. "Are you sure the show is going to go all season?"

They were interrupted by a small, dark-skinned waiter, who grinned. "Hello Mister Levine!"

"Sirhan, my lad, how're you doing?" Levine grinned at Ted. "Sirhan is my favorite waiter, I always ask for him. He's a man of ideas. Sirhan, we may have to hire you at NBC…you could shine my shoes, and give me international opinions, I lack them."

"I am moving back to Los Angeles next week, Mr. Levine." Sirhan said, smiling. "I am no longer at loose ends. I hope to make big splash in that pond, no?"

"Well, not exactly, but I know what you mean. Remember, Sirhan, no matter what you choose to do in life, if it seems important, you go ahead. That's the Vernon Levine Goal of Life. But until then, give me the roast beef and gravy sandwich, and I guess you want your usual egg salad, right Ted? It's on me."

Ted gloomily assented, thinking only of ad placements.

"He's a great kid, knows all about religions, and his name is actually Sirhan Sirhan…easy to remember, easy to spell. Those sand niggers, they have the right ideas." Vernon Levine said lazily. "He's an activist. An anti-Israel activist, but I'm an American, I don't give a shit… I wish I could get my kids to have strong idealism like that. Just to be in favor of SOMETHING. But they just want to smoke the ganja all day."

Levine paused, looked at Ted and said "You don't handle sexy products. I was watchin' this great Volkswagen ad recently, CBS runs it. They point out that women hit things with cars, lousy drivers, and the Volks keeps everything inside the car shipshape."

Ted looked depressed. He wondered if perhaps he should have gone to dental college.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Twenty-four NERVOUS IN THE SERVICE

April, 1944

Burt Cooper smiled patiently, looking across the scarred cafeteria table at Peanut. The kid had to be doing better. His mouth was running, after all.

"You know, they had that scoundrel Roosevelt here.—our so-called President." Peanut lit a Luckie, and blew a smoke ring. "First thing they did when they dedicated Bethesda Naval—bring old Frankie in and try to fix his withered legs. Too bad they didn't knock him off instead. That would've been a great New Deal."

Burt winced. "That's—that's enough of that. The doctors say you're doing well, your nerves are better—"

At the next table, a man who had seemed catatonic, grizzled fellow began humming "Elmer's Tune".

Peanut smiled ruefully at his adopted uncle. "That's me, nervous in the service, right? My men were so impressed, when I had my little breakdown—after all that talk about knocking off Japs. And now I'm a Section Eight. Dad will be so proud."

"No, it's not going to be like that, Peanut." Burt said firmly. "I-I have some friends in Washington, and you're going to be given an honorable discharge. And, a Purple Heart."

"You're kidding. Where was I supposed to have been wounded? My ensign found me crying in my bunk, Uncle Burt. Shit, if you can get me a Purple Heart, maybe I could get a Silver Star, too."

Burt gazed across the cafeteria. My Lord, was that Fleet Admiral Oilseed? He and General Entwistle were on the Fred Allen show six months ago, talking about Jap submarines. And here Oilseed was in the loony bin cafeteria, wearing a cocktail dress…and lip rouge.

Peanut looked out the window of the psychiatric ward of the Bethesda Naval Hospital, and grinned. "I loved the cadet corps, LOVED it, when I was in school. Remember, Uncle Burt? I finally had to finish high school in a military academy, and the shooting went so well, and then I was commissioned in NROTC at Yale."

"You looked very fine in your naval whites, Peanut." Uncle Burt said loyally. He paused, and sipped his tea. The tea was terrible here, barely hot, but it was after all, a nuthouse.

War wasn't pleasant. Burt had fought in the Battle of Soissons, back in the First World War…ugh. What to do about the boy? "Look here, Peanut. You can say you were shot in the stomach, or something. I have compensated Ensign Aconleigh, and he won't say anything—he's from Iowa, anyhow. Let's talk about your future. I know you had had hopes for going to law school, but you didn't quite get your degree—" Peanut snorted. He'd finished sophomore year and then gone to the Vineyard with Mother, and had tended bar there a bit, just for a lark, before war had been declared. It had been a shame—Roger Sterling, Junior was a handsome young man, and quite articulate, but he wasn't much of a sticker, mostly he was a talker. But in some organizations, mused Uncle Burt, talking was all you needed. Suddenly an obese fellow in a green coverall approached the table. "Captain Sterlin' are you comin' to play gin rummy with us? J.G. Paxton has some you know—it's called 'Diary of a French Secretary'" The obese man winked. Peanut grinned. "I'll be over later, Otto." He winked at Uncle Burt. " That guy was a Chief Warrant Officer, and now he hears voices from Davey Jones's Locker…" Uncle Burt smiled. Wherever he was, Roger Sterling, Junior was popular, and well liked. It was an unfortunate situation, this discharge, but they could get past this. Was there a young man in a turban near the exit? The dress code here in the lunchroom seemed quite unorthodox. Burt wondered whether the war could be won at this rate… Suddenly Peanut put his head in his hands. "Uncle Burt, they gave me a destroyer, and I couldn't destroy! Those little yellow…" Peanut looked up, with streaming eyes. "I…I know you are interested in Japanese culture…but oh, I hated them…and I was the real yellow one, if you know what I mean." Uncle Burt felt like he should hug Peanut, but a man doesn't do that. He didn't know what it would be like when Roger, Senior met with his son. Senior, who had gotten out of the Great War because of pierced eardrums, or some such nonsense, was still quite the brave patriot. But Senior had given Burt full control of this situation. "Pull yourself together, Roger." Burt said finally. Peanut looked up. "What's that Uncle Burt?" Uncle Burt had never called Peanut by his first name, nor had most people. "No, I'm just Burt, and you are Roger Sterling now. I'll only use the Junior when I'm in the same room with your dad. We want you to come aboard at Sterling Cooper." Peanut, or Roger Sterling, Junior, looked carefully at (not Uncle) Burt. "Seriously? I-advertising, huh? And Dad went for it? He's not ashamed of me?" The door to the cafeteria opened, and a beautiful dark haired girl came in. All of twenty, she dazzled Roger Jr., and the rest of the loons in the Bethesda Naval Hospital cafeteria with her smile. She sat down next to Burt. "And this, Roger, " said Burt with a smile, "Is a new friend for you, Mona." 


End file.
